


heart heart head

by silverhedges



Series: the zodiac signs as: drama [5]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Friends With Benefits, Heartbreak, Hunter x Hunter Politics, Multi, OT4, Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-20 16:33:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17625836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverhedges/pseuds/silverhedges
Summary: In which everyone is in love with the wrong person and it turns out that personal relationships have a heavy influence on amendment voting processes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paristonyaoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paristonyaoi/gifts), [Kiddokuns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiddokuns/gifts), [crownsandbirds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownsandbirds/gifts).



> Takes place in the same universe as the previous two fics in this series. Rated M for offscreen sex and discussions around what sex and love mean.
> 
> Title is from Heart Heart Head by Meg Myers.
> 
> Follow me on twitter @silversgone for hxh content babes! Dedicated to the Ging GC.

Mizaistom is being lulled into a dangerous false sense of security.

This thought is the only one in his mind when he wakes up and, like a red flag or a warning bell, finds Ging still asleep in his bed. This is the sixth day in a row that this has happened and Mizaistom does not trust it. He does not trust this to last. After all, this is Ging Freecss he’s sleeping with – heartbreak extraordinaire, callous to a fault, inclined to go out for cigarettes and never return.

Their sporadic couplings are developing into a different stage. One where Mizaistom wakes up to discover that Ging is still in his bed every morning and every night after Zodiac business and history research Ging shows up at Mizaistom’s door. It’s not like the world has flipped upside-down and Ging is being clingy. It’s more likely that he just needs a place to sleep and Mizaistom’s bed is convenient. But still, just look at how strange this is –

Mizaistom slides out of bed, careful not to wake Ging. He showered the night before, so he dresses now, going from sleeping in barely anything to being completely covered by his suit. (He refuses to call it “the cow suit”. It is a suit patterned with black and white spots.) He washes his face and paints on his makeup in the bathroom. Finally, his hat on his head, despite being indoors, because Mizaistom has become so accustomed to it that it feels wrong to not wear it.

It's early yet, so he leaves his phone unattended to on his bedside, not wanting to be burdened down by replying to late-night emails. In the kitchen he begins making breakfast, hesitating over the portions for two before it occurs to him that he had unconsciously accounted for this possibility in his weekly shop. (Warning bell.) Ging stumbles out of the bed-room craggy-eyed and heads for the shower. Steam oozes out of the doorway as Mizaistom makes the food.

He serves up milky porridge with chopped strawberry and banana and a glass of apple juice to go with it. Mizaistom is nothing if not conscientious about his health, a habit borne from cooking for Cheadle all the way through her medical degree. Netero has told him before – “Mizai, your habit of trying to be a cow shepherding goats will end in nothing but trouble!” – but Mizaistom can’t pass by people who are incapable of looking after themselves and do nothing. Case in point: Ging.

Ging re-appears out of the bedroom, hair flattened, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and one of Mizaistom’s t-shirts. “Morning,” he greets as he sits down and promptly begins shovelling food into his mouth.

Mizaistom takes the time to eat properly. He considers not responding and instead maintaining his peace but he can’t not respond to Ging and so he responds, “Good morning.”

They eat in silence. Mizaistom watches Ging eat. Ging’s eyes are unfocused, dreaming of a destination far beyond what he sees in front of him.

Ging finishes before him, grabbing an apple from the fruit basket to chew through. “Did you know,” he says in-between bites, apple juice trickling down his throat and Mizaistom’s eyes following, “that there are exactly eighteen islands shaped like different kinds of fish out there in the ocean?”

“No.”

“They tell the brats on Whale Island that long ago, there was a massive whale that swam through the sky and sea, eating up clouds and islands alike.” His voice has taken on a reciting quality, mimicking someone else’s words. “When the whale died, the body rested on the ocean floor. Our island grew from the moss and plants that covered the whale’s bones.”

When no more words come forth, Mizaistom says, “It sounds morbid.”

Ging shrugs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “There’s worse origin stories.”

Ging doesn’t ask for the origin story of Mizaistom’s home and Mizaistom doesn’t offer. He knows it’s irrational but he wants Ging to ask him. (Warning bell.)

Mizaistom watches as Ging stretches, arms above his head, eyes closed. He groans from the back of his throat. “Right. Time to get to work, Mizai.”

“Agreed,” Mizaistom says and stands to clear the dishes away.

.

Eight thirty in the morning and Cheadle has already sent ten emails answering both medical and legal consultation questions, read an article about a hypothetical method for testing a strand of a disease she is working on, completed her morning gym exercise routine, pre-prepared her morning snack, lunch and dinner and is walking into the office.

She would consider this a pleasant start to her day, if not for what happens next.

“Let me get the door for you,” Pariston says, voice too smooth and standing too close. His smile is like the sun on a day when you are excessively hungover. Cheadle glares at him as she passes through, being short enough that she doesn’t need to duck under his arm. “Isn’t it a fine morning, Cheadle? I’m sure that there will be an exciting agenda today for our Zodiac meeting.”

Cheadle scowls at him, gripping her hand tighter on the suitcase of important papers she brings with her to work. “Well, Mr Vice Chairman, you’re the one with exclusive access to our agenda. I wonder why you’re bringing it up. Maybe you know something I don’t. Rat.”

Pariston blinks his long eyelashes slow. “Cheadle, there’s plenty of things I know that you don’t.” When she immediately huffs, he adds, “And of course, there’s plenty you know that I don’t. Isn’t that what it means to be specialising in different fields?”

Cheadle boils.

“I will see you at our meeting, Rat,” she grits out from behind her teeth and turns on her heel to go to her office. Unfortunately, him and his long legs catch up easily.

“Ah, you’re also going to your office, Cheadle?” He smiles down at her, one hand on his satchel. It clashes with the purple and red travesty that he’s wearing. “Let me accompany you, I’m also on my way to my office. Haha, I don’t know where else I would be!”

Their offices are organised in the same pattern of the Zodiacs that they sit in during meetings. That means there’s only Ging’s office inbetween them and needless to say, Ging has never so much as stepped foot in his supposed office. Which leaves Pariston with Mizaistom on one side and Cheadle on the other. To phrase it differently: Pariston is the annoyance between them.

Once safely in her office, unpacking her case law and medical bibles, Cheadle texts Mizai: _Looks like it’ll be an “interesting” Zodiac meeting today._

One heartbeat later, the reply: _Pariston?_

_The Rat._

_He’s in the way of everything._

Cheadle couldn’t agree more, but then again, Mizai is always right. The two of them are synced into each other, agreement built out of a long and deep friendship. They click on almost every level. Old friends who come to resemble each other. She grins at her phone in the empty office.

.

The Zodiacs trickle in. Ginta is the first there, greeting everyone with soppy expressions of comradeship as if they had been parted for years. Botobai, Cheadle and Mizaistom arrive as a group, deep in discussion about a current highly-contentious legal case. Cluck and Gel walk in together, Saiyu trailing behind them. Saccho appears to be attempting to explain basic internationally-renowned political figures to Kanzai. Pyon walks in while simultaneously furiously typing on her phone.

Netero and Pariston arrive as a cheerful pair, coffee in hand and suspicious smiles.

Late and last, Ging walks in through the door. He didn’t want to come. He slumps down into his seat, ignoring Cheadle’s nod and Mizai’s gaze and Paris’ smile.

“Thanks for coming to work today Ging,” Netero greets him. “I didn’t expect it of you. Right, Paris, we can go ahead with whatever awful scheme you have for me today.”

Pariston beams at their Chairman, and then goes through the introductory rites: minutes of the last meeting, any relevant updates since then, a number of small issues and then finally, the real meaning of today’s meeting.

“Item number seven,” Pariston reads out, grinning, “The Hunter Association has received a request from the Begerossé Union for a top-tier team.”

Beside him, Ging notices Cheadle straightening, her and Mizai making eye contact.

Pariston reads it out like a birthday announcement: “They have received intelligence that internal paramilitary organisations have gained access to a Miniature Rose. I’m sure none of you need a refresher on the conflict there and it’s brutal ending – well, Kanzai, ask Mizaistom to explain it to you. Needless to say, they have excellent reasons for wanting these paramilitaries captured and the Rose secured as soon as possible. No matter what the price is.” He sets the sheet down. “If I may ask a question, I suppose it is: who do we ask to go? Why, Cheadle, you look as if you want to say something – would you like to go?”

“Hold on a minute here!” Cluck interrupts, scowling. “Pariston, you scumbag, you can’t just order a Hunter to go on any mission, especially not one from a V5 member. This Association isn’t for you to order about! Or anyone! Why are we discussing this?”

In the background, Mizaistom is quietly explaining the Begerossé Union’s domestic politics to Kanzai.

Netero leans back, watching it all with amusement.

“That is a good question,” Botobai agrees, tapping his claws against the table. “Normally a mission would be given to the mission shop so that any Hunter can apply. Ordering anyone to take a mission is distasteful and disrespectful to the very nature of what a Hunter is – a person who specialises in a specific area and cannot simply do any mission. To suggest Cheadle for this mission would be an affront to her as she does not specialise in catching terrorists. However, a mission with a nature of this sensitivity might be better kept within the Zodiacs.”

“So you’re just suggesting yourself, old man?” Saiyu drawls.

Cluck elbows him. “He’s literally a Terrorist Hunter, you idiot.”

Botobai nods in assent.

“But Botobai can’t go by himself,” Ginta points out, on the edge of tears. “What if he gets hurt? He needs a team.”

“If we’re keeping this within the Zodiacs, then a Zodiac team,” Saccho says. “Although do we have to keep it within the Zodiacs? There are not enough of us, unfortunately.”

“If I may?” Pariston holds up a finger, smiling. “I was going to suggest that one Zodiac lead the team and be accompanied by other Hunters in the Association.”

The Zodiacs glare at him.

“You just want to send in your soulless temps, you filthy Rat,” Gel hisses. “None of us trust that they won’t stab Botobai in the back. Pick a team who actually know what they’re doing.”

Pariston laughs like a recorded copy to be played at the appropriate moments. “No, I wasn’t thinking of them at all! I was going to suggest Teradein Neutral, Bushidora Ambitious and Loupe Highland to go along.”

An uneasy and reluctant silence ensues. Everyone knows what he was referring to: the three respectively are a Head Hunter, a Blacklist Hunter and a Lost Hunter. The perfect combination of specialisations for finding unsavoury characters.

Ging watches Mizaistom give Cheadle a concerned glance. Her hands are clenched within her silk gloves, shoulders tense and mouth a firm line. Eyes fixed on Pariston.

“That… could work,” Botobai says, clearly calculating the possibility. “I am not personally acquainted with Mr Neutral, but Bushidora is a rising star and Loupe has done excellent work for all of us in the past.”

Everyone glares at Ging.

They all remember the times that the Lost Hunter has been asked to go find Ging.

Ging pulls a face right back at them. “What?”

“Anyway,” Pariston moves on. “How great this is! We’ve settled the question of who will go to the Begerossé Union. Of course, Botobai’s word is final, unless anyone else disagrees…? No? Good. Then we can move onto the next topic – unless there’s any final words on the matter. Cheadle and Mizaistom, I notice you’ve been very quiet. Come on, everyone has to join in.”

A moment of stony silence and then Mizaistom bites out: “We don’t jump at every opportunity we get to give our undeserved opinion on everything, Pariston.”

“I think Cheadle’s opinion in this matter is quite deserved, don’t you?”

Cheadle’s heavy clothes and insistence on covering every part of herself do her good in this instance. If you aren’t sitting right beside her, it would be impossible to see the tension in her body. “I have nothing to say to you. _Rat_.”

Pariston looks at her for a moment with unfathomably dark eyes, then shuffles his papers and says brightly, “Good! Now we can move on to the next item on the agenda –“

“Wait wait wait wait wait.”

Everyone stares at Ging.

Ging points a finger at Botobai. “Let me come with you. I wanna go to the Begerossé Union too.”

“Then why didn’t you say that earlier?!” Cluck yells at him. “Hey, you’re not even qualified to go!”

“I _am_ a Zodiac, aren’t I? And it seems like fun. Got an interesting history. I’ll go anyway.” Ging leans back, scratching the unshaved stubble on his cheek. Maybe he has his own reasons for going, but it’s nice to hitch a ride along to get there.

Netero is nodding in the background, so Botobai sighs deeply and agrees. The meeting moves on to other matters, but the most important aspect is decided. There is an issue in the Begerossé Union and Ging will be leaving Swardani City.


	2. Chapter 2

Ging is the type to go wherever he pleases with nothing but the clothes on his back and his sharp wit. Mizaistom is surprised to even receive a text from Ging: _Throw out anything I left at your place._ He didn’t even know that Ging had a phone. Needless to elaborate on, Ging won’t be showing up and sneaking into Mizaistom’s bed tonight. This is fine. Mizaistom had known that it wouldn’t last and now his caution has served him well.

So why is he dreading returning home to an empty apartment?

After the Zodiac meeting finishes off and Ging disappears into the distance, Mizaistom is distracted. He tells colleagues that he will call them back and forgets to do so. He stops mid-way through a paragraph, not knowing what article he’s reading. He goes on a useless wander around the Hunter Association building three times. On the subway home he nearly misses his stop.

Once home, he flicks on the lights.

The bedsheets still smell of Ging. There’s a half-eaten box of cereal in the cupboard, despite that Mizaistom is disgusted by the sugar content, because Ging wanted to eat cereal before bedtime. A notebook Ging took from Mizaistom’s stationary stockpile has been scribbled in, but Mizaistom is a scrupulous enough man not to read it. Clothes waiting in the laundry basket are ones that Ging had worn.

Mizaistom sits for a while on the couch, head in his hands.

Then he digs the Begerossian red wine out of its hiding place, pours himself a glass and turns on his laptop, search history incognito. Types in: _how to know if you are in love with someone._

He finds a pseudo-scientific article, listing symptoms such as ‘staring at them’, ‘always thinking about them’, ‘wanting them to be happy’, ‘okay with their gross stuff’. Mizaistom could go further, search up real academic articles, order books on the subject, do his research until his cautious mind can form a judgement. But he doesn’t need to. His gut instinct is telling him what he needs to know. He’s had his heart broken before and he swore to himself _never again_.

What to do with this awful information?

Mizaistom drinks half the bottle, then a glass of water. He brushes his teeth, changes the bedsheets and goes to sleep alone. If he wakes up in the morning looking for Ging’s face, then that is his own business and no one else’s. He goes for a long morning run. His heart pounds locked in his cage – a reminder that it is still there, that Ging did not leave with it.

.

Once a week, Chairman Netero spars with one of the Zodiacs. It’s meant to be in the Zodiac cycle, meaning that they only fight Netero once every three months. Unfortunately, sometimes the Zodiacs are called away on missions when it’s meant to be their turn, or Ging plain doesn’t show up. He doesn’t even respect Netero. That means the Zodiac cycle turns faster.

Mizaistom has the honour this week. So he sheds his patterned suit – it is not a cow suit! – for a tracksuit in a similar pattern. If nothing else, Mizaistom is consistent in his aesthetic. All the Zodiacs give some degree of thought as to their appearance – with the exception of Ging, of course, who Mizaistom has watched pull on yesterday’s clothes completely unbothered.

(There Ging is again in his mind, as if Mizaistom carries a piece of him everywhere he goes. Ging seeps into everything: buying food, the historical context part of the preamble to whatever legislation he is reading, even into the past memories before Mizaistom knew him.)

The sparring hall is unchanged. An echoing chamber, gleaming and ready to be ruined, with Netero waiting in the middle.

The Chairman is rolling his right shoulder, as if Mizaistom could possibly stand a chance against him. The conditions of the spars are always the same: no hatsu, just sparring with basic ten and ren. Technically, other Zodiacs could come and watch, but none of them ever do. All Hunters are naturally very private about their fighting capabilities. Mizaistom still has absolutely no idea as to what Ging’s ability is, other than Netero has rated Ging as one of the best in the world.

The Chairman’s greeting breaks him out of his daydream. “Morning, Mizai,” Netero raises a hand. “Let’s get to it, Cow.”

Mizaistom steps into a sparring position, just the way that was drilled into his bones so long ago. His body acts on automation: dodge, feint, roll, high kick, cartwheel, punch, dodge, roll, take a slam to his neck and –

He groans from the floor, head spinning.

He knows his mind was somewhere else.

On someone far away.

If you’ve read this far, you should know damn well who it is.

Netero shakes his head at him, turning away. There is an edge of disgust to his voice when he says, “You know what your problem is, Mizai? You want to be the hero for people who don’t need to be saved.”

Mizaistom picks himself off of the floor, rolling to his feet, a dull headache beginning to pound at the base of his neck. He doesn’t need Netero to say it out loud that he has been a disappointment today. Mizaistom has been named for a disappointment plenty of times in his life. Back then, he would have given anything to meet someone who would save him.

Out loud, he says, “I pride myself on being a role model for my younger self. Become the person you want to meet in the world.”

Netero sighs, deep. He looks at Mizaistom, who is left with the unshakeable feeling that he has said the wrong thing. What is so wrong with what he just said? Doesn’t everyone want to be a better person? To be a good person?

This time, Netero sounds disappointed, but regretful too. “You are your own hero, Mizai. But not everyone is like you.”

Mizaistom frowns. “What do you mean?”

Netero is already walking away, shaking his head. “I didn’t expect this of you, you know,” the Chairman calls back over his shoulder, “For you to be so weak. Love makes you vulnerable! Open to attack! Where did all your common sense go, Cow?”

Mizaistom is left alone in the echoing glimmering chamber, being walked away from. He can’t say that it is an unfamiliar feeling.

.

On the way home, after his twenty-minute subway journey spent staring at the black windows, Mizaistom drops by the grocery store. He doesn’t strictly require more food or shampoo or a magazine, but he wanders the aisles, head full of white static, empty basket in hand. Perhaps he should buy more food anyway, just in case Ging does show up in his bed tonight.

He won’t.

But perhaps.

Mizaistom has been staring at the cereal boxes, colours bright and childish, for a good five minutes, when someone coughs next to him. He drags his head up as if through water, eyes unfocused, until finally the world unfolds back into a three-dimensional space and he sees who is standing next to him –

Pariston beams at him.

Without thinking, Mizaistom scowls back. “What are you doing here?”

The Rat blinks back at him with his long eyelashes. “I do believe I have a right to be here in this grocery store,” he answers, slow. “After all, how else would I do my shopping? Do you believe I order other people to do it for me?”

Mizaistom stares at him for a long moment. “No,” he finally finds the words to say. “But this isn’t your neighbourhood.”

That’s true and the malicious curve of Pariston’s smile says that he acknowledges that truth. He looks out of place, jarring under the glare of the florescent lights on his tacky suit, as if someone has edited him into this reality. A sparkling man in a suit standing in the cereal aisle? No, it doesn’t make sense, doesn’t fit the reality that Mizaistom had envisioned.

Pariston leans into him, brushes his shoulder against Mizaistom’s. “Maybe I just wanted to see you,” he says, low and sly and bright. He is warm against Mizaistom, he smells of expensive golden cologne. “Maybe I’m lost and need someone to take me home.”

Mizaistom turns his head back to the cereal boxes. There is nothing in the space where his heart is supposed to beat. No anger for Pariston, no disgust or annoyance. Just a raw expanse of exhaustion. “I don’t want to play your games today.”

Skin-on-skin contact, brief but nerve-shorting, as Pariston takes the basket from Mizai’s hand and swings it in his hands. He looks like a schoolchild. “Then let me play your game, Mizai darling,” he purrs, smiling. “Come on. Let’s pick out food. When we go home you can cook for me, and when I crawl into your bed you can pretend I’m Ging.”

Mizaistom closes his eyes, swaying a little in the cereal aisle. He knows how this will end: viciously. It’s never how it is with Ging when it’s with Pariston. “Fine. But don’t expect me to tell you that I love you.”

When he opens his eyes, Pariston is grinning, eyes crinkled and teeth bared. Is it an expression of joy or war? “Dear Mizai,” he croons, “I would never expect you to lie to me.”

.

Pariston toys with his food instead of eating it. He pushes Mizaistom onto the bed and leaves bitemarks on his shoulders. Even with sweat dripping down him, there is cruelty in his breathy laughter.

Next morning, Mizaistom wakes up and Ging is not there.

Instead the devil is in his bed, the pre-dawn light turning his skin to gold, wet tears on his slack sleeping expression. Mizaistom does not touch him after they have finished, ignores his trembling, the scars, how he knows Pariston lies awake on the sheets without sleep. Perhaps Mizaistom is not as merciful or as nice as he wants to be. Perhaps Pariston is someone who does not deserve to be saved.

Mizaistom leans over and thumbs the tears away.

It doesn’t suit a smiling man to cry, he tells himself, and Pariston will never find out anyway.

.

Familiar coffee scent, familiar background chatter, familiar woman by his side. If Mizaistom closes his eyes, they might be back in first-year law, complaining about their professors and how easy the homework is. But they’re older now, catching a brief respite in-between meetings, trying to forget the stresses of the jobs they’re juggling.

Cheadle pays for them because Mizaistom paid last time. Their usual: Earl Grey for Cheadle, expresso for Mizaistom, a blueberry muffin to split between them. Their usual window seat is already taken, but they take the cushioned booth instead.

They banter about legal cases and how annoying their colleagues are and how good the Hunter Association gym is until finally the conversation turns to:

“Botobai and Ging have been gone for three weeks,” Cheadle muses, hands cupped around her tea. “I wonder if Botobai is alright.”

Mizaistom pauses, crumbs on his fingers, then says, “Botobai will be fine, he’s a Triple. Speaking of that, how far are you along on your application for Triple Stars? Get it before Pariston does.”

“I’d rather die than let the Rat get it first,” Cheadle mutters, then glances at him, then back to her tea. “How are you feeling?”

“You’ll have to specify what about,” Mizaistom takes a sip of his expresso. “Aren’t you a lawyer? Vague speech is a mortal sin.”

Cheadle makes steady eye-contact with her reflection in the tea. “About Ging.”

Mizaistom sets down his cup. As a friend, he owes her the truth to be honest about how he feels. Yet when he’s with Cheadle, there is this strange bubble around them that prevents them from talking about Significant Others openly. Romantic love is the strange hairline fracture of their friendship. He wants to say, _Ging would never take your place_ , he wants to say, _Ging occupies a different space in my heart_ , he wants to say, _look,_ _Ging isn’t going to steal me away from you_.

Instead he opens his mouth and says with all the truth that he can give to her, “I’m happy that he’s having a great time. He hates being trapped in one city for a long time.”

Cheadle’s gaze darts to him and for a single moment, she looks hurt.

Then she returns her gaze to her tea and it melts away. After a pause, she says, “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? To be happy for him. I’m glad that you’re not sad.” The words are stiff from her tongue. “I would like to feel that way too, one day.”

This is the way they talk about love: without ever mentioning it.

Mizaistom smiles at her, teases across the booth: “Oh, to feel what, Miss Vague Lawyer? To be happy? To not be sad?”

Cheadle rolls her eyes and changes the subject.

.

Two and a half months after they left, the trio of Hunters return to the nest empty-handed.

Neither Ging or Botobai accompany them.


End file.
